


Petrichor

by tsauergrass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (?), Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 14:15:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18345341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsauergrass/pseuds/tsauergrass
Summary: Draco tilted his head upwards. Rain slid long his nose, his cheeks, dripping down his chin; the bench was cold and wet, the chill nestling close to his thighs. He breathed, slowly and steadily, as if matching the rhythm of the rain, as if he could morph into the downpour if he took everything in with his lungs.Breathe.His eyes closed, his mind blank. It was as if time did not move at all.In the distance, splashing sounds disrupted the rhythm. It grew louder and louder, faster and faster. Draco opened his eyes.In a curtain of water, a silhouette approached.Harry.After the war, Draco found himself uncontrollably drawn to the rain.





	Petrichor

Eyes closed, Draco tilted his head upwards.

Rain beat against him, slicking his hair to his forehead, cascading down his neck to his body. His soaked clothes clung onto him like a thin layer of skin, intimate and naked. Waiting, in a rhythm he couldn’t quite catch, for the next droplet to hit his eyelids; always a little faster or later than what he’d expected, catching him slightly off-guard, almost as if teasing. But there was no teasing in the heavy rain, only silence, the rain beating against his skin like a punishment, like cleansing.

Water slid along his nose, his lips, dripping down his chin until he couldn’t tell where the rain ended and he started. He exhaled, and inhaled again. Aware of his chest heaving, lungs brimming, until breathing felt like not breathing at all, until everything tasted of rain, just rain.

He stood.

*

Draco looked out of the window from his office.

The sky was grey, so pale it was almost white. The color spread out monotonously and with no edge, the whole sky an empty canvas.

He went back to his papers. He tapped the parchment with his quill, tap, tap, tap, until the tiny ink dots spread out like a sporadic constellation, one made out of mistake.

*

The lights were still on, Draco realized with surprise. He closed the door behind him and checked the clock. Eleven at night.

There was food left on the kitchen island. He ambled into the living room, a name already on his lips when he stopped short by the couch.

Harry.

Draco knelt down and looked at him. He was already asleep, curled on his side with his glasses still on, askew across his face. Something warm and foreign tingled in his chest. He brushed Harry’s fringe back carefully.

“Harry,” he called.

Harry stirred. Draco called again, and Harry slowly blinked his eyes open.

“Hey.” Harry smiled, slow and dazzling as if he was still on the teetering edge of dreams. “You’re home.”

Draco brushed his hair again. “You were waiting for me?”

“Yeah, thought that was obvious.” Harry sat up and yawned, rubbing his face. “There’s food in the kitchen, if—why are you wet?”

Draco’s heart skipped a beat. His soaked clothes plastered onto his skin, suddenly cold.

He had forgotten to dry himself before he came in.

“The rain caught me by surprise.” Draco forced a smile. “I was a second too late.”

“Oh, the rain was heavy. Are you cold?” Harry asked as he took out his wand and tapped Draco here and there. Draco’s clothes dried in an instant, lingering with warmth. “I’ll make you hot tea, eh?”

“No, no tea. It’s eleven, you moron.” Draco pressed a quick kiss to Harry’s lips, feeling the curve of Harry’s smile. “Let’s go to bed.”

*

Draco touched Harry just above his cheek, slowly, carefully, faltering because of uncertainty, because of delicacy, because in the dark he couldn’t be sure whether this was all just a dream, even though he knew this was not. Harry slept on his stomach, his back rising and falling with each faint breath, bare shoulder peeking out of the crisp, blossoming duvets like hidden treasure. The patch of skin was smooth underneath Draco’s fingertips, close enough to his eyes that it felt sacred. But every inch of Harry’s body was sacred, and sometimes Draco felt like walking under water, waiting for the moment he’d wake up, lungs burning and gasping for air yet already yearning to drown again.

On some nights Harry had nightmares. His nightmares were cries and screams, arms thrashing and begging, names croaked on the tip of his tongue, dead yet alive in a worse way.

Tonight was not one of those nights.

Draco carefully kissed Harry. When he woke up much later to a dark and quiet room, heart pounding against his chest, cold sweat chilling his bones, he realized he’d drifted off.

On some nights Draco had nightmares.

Tonight was one of those nights.

He tried to stifle his own breathing. Too heavy. He swallowed, once, twice. Still panting. The chill gripped his throat like a claw.

Outside, the sound of rain was steady.

Draco closed his eyes briefly and, when sleep tugged tentatively at him, forcefully reopened them again. The rhythm outside the window was soft and distant, almost like a lullaby. He could taste the damp air already. His whole body ached to go out, to drench under the rain, to bathe in the cool air. Yet he lied in bed, immobilized.

Perhaps he was sentimental. Perhaps he was paranoid. Or perhaps he was just selfish. But the idea of leaving Harry alone in bed chained him in the duvets, another claw gripping at his wrists, his chest, his ankles.

Beside him, Harry slept soundly.

Draco’s nightmares were silent, as if fear ripped away his voice. Sometimes Harry woke to them, sometimes he didn’t; on the nights he did, he wrapped Draco in his arms and kissed him slowly as he stroked his hair, murmuring as he pressed his lips all over Draco’s face, feathery-light. A bad dream was nothing more than a bad dream, distant like a faded memory.

Tonight was not one of those nights.

Draco closed his eyes, and reopened them.

Outside, rain fell steadily.

*

Draco looked up to the sky.

Heavy mist lurked around the streets like spilled water paint. Only much less likable, he thought, as he opened the door to his and Harry’s home.

It hadn’t rained for almost a fortnight.

“Hey.” Harry smiled from the armchair, curled like a ball with a book in his hands. Draco bent down and kissed him.

“You’re reading?”

“Hey, I do read, just not a lot.” Harry argued at Draco’s raised brow as Draco shrugged his coat off and settled on the couch. “It’s a collection of wizarding tales. I know some, but not a lot.”

“You could have asked me about them,” said Draco, a little surprised. And perhaps a little hurt, but there was no need to spill everything out.

“I know. You seemed stressed these days, though, so I didn’t want to bother you more.” Harry sat straight and tilted his head. “Is everything alright?”

Draco looked away. Harry always seemed to see straight through him. Sometimes it left him feeling too exposed, too vulnerable. There were some things he wasn’t ready to share just yet. “Yes. Just work, that’s all.”

“Okay.” Harry nodded and stood up. “I’ll make us hot chocolate, yeah?”

“Okay.”

Harry bent down and kissed him. Draco sighed into Harry’s mouth, because sometimes Harry _was_ rain, and even though he was always too transparent for his like in front of Harry, he was grateful for someone to see through his guard. And he hated that Harry wasn’t enough, on days that he sought atonement so desperately like a drug addict, the peace delivered only through beating droplets and soaked clothes.

Maybe he didn’t look away because he was too exposed or too vulnerable. Maybe it was just him averting the urge to tell Harry everything, averting his own cowardice stopping him, averting the conflict raging on within him because if he looked into those kind green eyes everything would tumble out before he noticed himself, only realizing afterwards that Harry had already seen all of them through, had known all along.

Harry pressed a final kiss on his lips and pulled away. “Hot chocolate,” he emphasized, as if the kiss just proved his point.

Draco had always liked sweets when he was upset.

*

Exhale.

So deeply as if it came from his bones instead of his lungs, as if every strain, every knot, every force he used to hold himself up was let loose with the gust of air.

Rain cascaded down his body, hungrily drenching him. His eyelashes fluttered as rain drops hit his eyelids, messy and sporadic.

He inhaled, and exhaled again.

*

He had come home late yet again. Found food in the kitchen and Harry curled in the armchair, glasses askew across his face. Work, Draco had explained. Harry nodded.

He had remembered to dry himself this time.

They ate in the kitchen. Or he ate and Harry watched him. The food was still warm from preserving charms, and something stirred in his chest watching Harry rub his eyes and yawn as he smiled, as Draco swallowed each spoonful of dinner.

Guilt hovered, heavy and suffocating.

Another nightmare. He woke Harry this time, and he wanted to cry as he gasped, as Harry cradled his face and brushed his fringe aside, held him close to his chest so he heard his heartbeat, because it should have been over. The war was over, but it wasn’t, not really. It chased him, lurked after him, haunted him, like a shadow he could never shake, struck him at his weakest, but it shouldn’t have been like this. There should be no aftermath at all, and he shouldn’t have to seek punishment through beating droplets and soaked clothes, shouldn’t feel like dying even though he survived, because wasn’t that the point of survival? To live, to move on?

Harry kissed him and murmured, lips pressed softly all over his face. Draco clung onto him like salvation.

*

Rain poured steadily.

Draco tilted his head upwards. Rain slid long his nose, his cheeks, dripping down his chin; the bench was cold and wet, the chill nestling close to his thighs. He breathed, slowly and steadily, as if matching the rhythm of the rain, as if he could morph into the downpour if he took everything in with his lungs.

Breathe.

His eyes closed, his mind blank. It was as if time did not move at all.

In the distance, splashing sounds disrupted the rhythm. It grew louder and louder, faster and faster. Draco opened his eyes.

In a curtain of water, a silhouette approached.

Harry.

Suddenly it was sixth year again. Wet floor, breaking down, Harry charging in; except he wasn’t scared, wasn’t crazed and desperate, wasn’t all hatred and crumbling pride. There was no fear, no overwhelming urge to escape.

He waited.

Harry was running. As if it wasn’t fast enough for him, he knelt down on his last few steps, splashing up water, his eyes lining up with Draco’s, frightened and searching.

“Draco,” he breathed, cradling Draco’s face and then checking his body. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Harry was soaked, too, drenched under the rain, hair flattened and plastered like an offhanded mess; he had forgotten to cast an umbrella charm himself. Something warm and foreign tingled in Draco’s chest.

“Merlin.” Harry cradled his face again. “You didn’t come back and I—”

“I’m sorry.” Guilt sneaked its way in, coiling. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Harry wiped his face with his thumbs even though it didn’t do anything, as if wiping away phantom tears. He pressed their foreheads together. “It’s okay.”

Draco closed his eyes. Harry knew. Perhaps he had known just a second ago. Or perhaps he had known all along.

Harry settled on the bench beside him and pulled him in until he nestled his head on Harry’s shoulder, wet cheek against wet clothes. Harry’s hand was warm on the back of his neck like a harbor, his scent clean through the rain.

They sat.

*

“I don’t know why,” Draco said quietly. The mug of tea was hot in his hands, steam twirling.

But that was a lie, he thought. He did know why. It was for punishment, for cleansing, for the peace that came only after; it was for the droplets always catching him slightly off-guard, dripping down his chin, his neck, the rain beating him like it had known the truth, that it had seen it all through, how he had wanted to fade into the heavy curtain, how he had wanted it to end.

Or perhaps he didn’t know why at all.

Harry sat on the couch towards him, legs crossed and drawn to his chin. His green eyes were warm and intent. Draco didn’t look away, this time; there was nothing left to hide, and somehow he had known since the start that there would never be anything to hide from Harry. He would lay himself bare in the end, just like he waited for him in the heavy rain, waiting for Harry to run to him, to see him, even though Harry already had.

“It’s just…so quiet,” Draco said, even though it wasn’t it at all. Or maybe it was, the way it silenced his spiraling mind and the tangled shadows. He could see it, the curtain of rain, steady like a lullaby…he quickly pulled himself back. “I just…”

Harry nodded, as if he understood everything behind Draco’s words.

They had dried themselves in silence after they came back home. Harry had made them tea and brought Draco chocolates. He wrapped Draco in a blanket when Draco curled himself in the armchair and kissed his forehead.

There were no questions asked, and Draco was grateful. He needed to tell Harry himself, even though he could never put it into words, the cascading rain, the beating droplets.

“It’s like I don’t have to think about anything at all.”

There, a piece of truth. Maybe it was the final piece Harry needed; maybe he already had that piece. Maybe he didn’t need that piece at all. Harry nodded.

“Like listening to a story.”

“Like reading.”

A faint smile curled on Harry’s lips. “Like reading.”

Draco took a sip of tea. It was still hot, and it warmed him from the inside.

*

That night, Draco told Harry one of the wizarding tales Harry hadn’t yet read. It was in the book, somewhere, he was sure, but as Harry took his glasses off after the story, the night lamp casting a warm, faint glow over his face, and he kissed Draco goodnight, Draco couldn’t help but plan to hide the book tomorrow for Harry to never read from it again. He would tell him tales every night if only for his smile, for his green eyes shining behind the glasses, knowing Harry liked this better, too.

*

Draco woke to the sound of the rain.

The room was still dark, shadows light, an early dawn. Harry’s feet touched his under the duvets, like a token in a time-stopped story, a silent touch.

The rain was steady outside the window. The rhythm filled Draco’s mind, soft and slow, tinting pale grey.

A hand touched his before slipping into his palm. Harry’s green eyes shone in the dark, lying on his side, face half-buried in the pillow. Draco squeezed his hand. Harry squeezed back.

Outside, the rain fell.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully this wasn't too ambiguous (or confusing)  
> Thank you for reading, lots of love!! Leave comments and tell me what you think!!  
> (I use way too many exclamation marks in this thing)  
> Find me on [tumblr](https://tsauergrass.tumblr.com/)


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